The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3)

by Philip J. Gould

  “He wants to meet yous to discuss. Says he’ll throw in a sweet’ner. He’ll let you have one of the wee things back, but only if yous come.”

  “Okay. When?” Sophie relished the chance of seeing the man again. She had promised herself that when she did, she would kill him. Now she was going to be meeting with him, resisting the urge to strangle him was going to be very difficult. “Where?” she added solemnly.

  “He’ll meet yous here, the-morn − that’s tomorrow. Come alone. He’ll be waitin’ all efternuin. If yous not here, we’ll still returns one of the wee things... only they’s won’t be breathing...”

  “I’ll be there,” seethed Sophie, her hand threatening to crush the phone’s receiver in her grip, the skin over her knuckles were taut and bright white. Before she could add anything further, like the standard threat: if you do anything to them, I’ll kill you, the line was disconnected.

  “We’ve found them,” repeated Mac for Sophie’s benefit, “Waverley Mall Shopping Centre, Edinburgh, the food hall.”

  Sophie sighed loudly as she placed the phone’s receiver back into its cradle. “KFC to be exact,” she replied. “They knew we would be tracing the call, so made no attempt at hiding.”

  “We could have police at the scene within minutes, and agents within the hour,” projected Emily, standing up, all abuzz. “Mac, access CCTV, see if we can find them on the grid, let’s locate and follow them.”

  “Already on it,” he replied.

  “Wait!” Sophie spoke firmly. “Just hold on. They have my family. Don’t you think Dominic will know what we’re capable of doing? Don’t you think he’s already planned for this? He knows how we operate, what surveillance equipment we have and he’s prepared for it.”

  “I hate to admit it, but she’s got a point,” said Brayden cautiously. It was hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours earlier he’d wanted to arrest the blonde girl. Then, she had fired a gun next to his head in response, nearly deafening him. Now he was defending her, an act which appeared to surprise Mullins sitting next to him. “He’ll expect us, and there are other things at stake.” Brayden looked up towards Sophie. “What do you want to do, Sophie? It’s your call.”

  Without hesitation, she replied. “We do as the woman said. I go meet with Dominic − ALONE − and listen to what the man has to say.”

  “Okay,” Brayden was nodding.

  “Okay,” concurred Emily. “I’ll get clearance from the Chief and start making the arrangements.”

  The Westland Puma helicopter, with its dark olive-green paintjob, was preparing to take off from a short landing strip outside the control tower at RAF Northolt, its four-blade rotor system kicking up dust and causing wind to gust and batter the short line of passengers who alighted from two mini buses parked at the edge of the airfield; they were heading for the military aircraft taking big strides and looking keen for action. Accompanying Sophie were Emily, Brayden, Christina Mullins, four FBI/CIA agents and four MI6 field agents.

  It was a little less than twenty-two hours since Sophie’s call with the Scottish woman had ended, and preparations for their Edinburgh bound journey were complete. A quick glance at her watch confirmed it was close to the scheduled departure time of 10:00 a.m. Climbing up the step and onto the Puma, Sophie couldn’t help feeling nauseous at the thought of flying on a helicopter again. She clutched the doorframe, unable to move forward. Sounds, images and smells from Nevada, of the Chinooks, flooded her memory.

  “It’ll be all right,” reassured Emily. When learning of the travel plans, Sophie had voiced her concerns. Emily hadn’t realised that the young woman had developed a phobia. Phobias were something an ‘emotion inhibitor’ would have eliminated... which her father had genetically added to his next batch of test subjects.

  “Sure,” replied Sophie, prising her hands free from the doorframe and forcing her legs to take her in.

  On board the helicopter were three others waiting expectantly; two helicopter crew (one the pilot, the other a weapons system officer), both dressed in their all-in-one Nomex olive flight suits and wearing big headsets that concealed their ears, and one other Sophie recognised from the GYGES mission.

  “Ladies...” Speaking in his gruff voice, the big man was quick to acknowledge Sophie and Emily and was smiling, genuinely pleased to see them. “I’ve saved you a couple of seats back here.” He hadn’t done any such thing; except for him and the two crew, the helicopter was empty. That soon changed. With seating for sixteen passengers, once Sophie, Emily and their FBI, CIA and MI6 entourage were strapped in, there were three seats left vacant.

  The crew of the helicopter disappeared into the cockpit.

  Sophie tried not to draw attention to her discomfort, barely acknowledging him. She took a seat behind the overly-familiar man.

  “Liam... what are you doing here?” asked Emily, noting that he was dressed almost identical to how she remembered him from before: khaki-green T-shirt (still too small) and dark-green combat trousers. On his feet were the black Alt-Berg combat boots, though they were now a little scuffed and muddied. “You said you were retiring.” The last time Emily had seen the man first encountered on Barry’s Bombardier at Dulles International Airport, was in London when they had returned from California on the same jet, battle-weary and exhausted. They had said their goodbyes, and Liam had made noises that he had had enough, and that he was going to settle down somewhere and live a quiet life.

  It was hard to believe that had only been two months ago.

  “Well,” Liam’s smile faded, “I heard what happened to Ryan... and, with Barry dead,” he said sadly, “I thought you might need a friendly face to keep you company.”

  In a window seat, Sophie peered out to look at gloomy London. It always seemed to be raining and a regularly overcast January day met her gaze. The noise of the helicopter steadily increased before it rocked a little from side to side and juddered as it left the ground, taking off gently, and rising fast into the late morning sky. Sophie clutched the padding of her seat, unable to subdue the unease enveloping her.

  With a maximum speed of 159 mph, the pilot of the RAF helicopter announced that they were due to arrive at Edinburgh Airport around 1:00 p.m.

  “It wouldn’t have taken much longer had we gone by train,” griped Sophie, though no one heard her over the drone and roar of the Puma’s twin engines, and the statement wasn’t strictly true. To travel by train from Kings Cross to Edinburgh was four-and-three-quarter hours.

  Ahead, in the seats in front, Emily and Liam chatted animatedly, occasionally laughing. All around the cabin relaxed conversations were taking place. Brayden and Mullins. FBI and CIA agents. MI6 colleagues. No one was bothered by their method of transport, or by the situation they were flying towards.

  But none of them came close to being shot out of the sky, she reflected. Sophie tried to close everything out and wished herself not there, a process that was now extremely simple. Although vanishing to nothing solved many problems, this time it didn’t. Physically she was still in place and the change did nothing to alleviate the unease she felt.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sleep the time and her fears away.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dominic

  Edinburgh’s Hogmanay festivities run for three days and are famous, not only in Scotland, but the world over. Hundreds of thousands of revellers turn up for the New Year’s festival; drinking, eating and enjoying the entertainment that brims from every pub, theatre and street corner, a gargantuan party unlike anything witnessed around the globe.

  Although Dominic’s visit to Scotland’s capital was strictly for business, Elspeth’s wasn’t. It was difficult for him not to be swept up in all the excitement that seemed to flourish across the city, the small woman sharing and delighting in as much exuberance as Edinburgh had to offer.

 
Now it was over and the mood of the city was vapid, like everyone was nursing the mother of all hangovers, which for the vast majority − indeed most of Scotland − was entirely true.

  But not for Dominic, who woke early that third January morning fresh and clear-headed and bolstered by the events laid out for the day. The same couldn’t be said for Elspeth, who had imbibed too much alcohol late into the night and had buried her head deep beneath a pile of pillows, trying to lessen the pounding that seemed to emanate from deep within her skull.

  “I’m going for a run,” Dominic informed her. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  From beneath the pillows, Elspeth grunted.

  Inserting small in-the-ear earphones, Dominic pressed play on his iPod and left the hotel room, walking the corridor and taking the elevator to ground level. As he passed reception, the concierge greeted him with a “Good morning.” Dominic returned it, splashing a smile.

  Exiting The Balmoral Hotel, he immediately set off into a light jog along deserted roads, heading in the direction of the castle, the mound and Princes Street Gardens.

  After ten minutes and barely breaking a sweat, he sat down on a bench opposite to the Ross Fountain centrally placed beneath the castle within Princes Street Gardens. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbled for his mobile, a cheap pay-as-you-go phone he’d bought for twenty quid from a supermarket. It was caught up amongst a packet of tissues and some loose change, but soon came free. Pressing redial on the Nokia handset, he lifted it to his left ear.

  The call was answered immediately.

  “Hector. Are you ready?”

  “Aye. Just about to leave.”

  “Good. You know where to go. Remember, if you don’t hear from me or Elsp-.”

  “Yes, I know,” Hector blurted, “I’m to kill the kid and deliver her body to her grandfather’s house in pieces, it’s not gonna be a problem.” Dominic didn’t like the man’s attitude and made a mental note to deal with him later.

  “Don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t.”

  Dominic pressed the end button and held the black Nokia for a moment in quiet contemplation. Yesterday, Sophie had been speaking to Elspeth on it. Just a cheap phone with an unregistered SIM placed within. The fact MI6 had likely traced its location did not concern him; not because he was unafraid of capture, or the fact that he was using his bargaining chip to protect his freedom, but because what MI6 had likely tracked was not the phone − or his − location, but a place he’d anticipated would be that afternoon’s meeting point with Sophie.

  A small high-tech device supplied by Kaplan Ratcliff the size of an iPod shuffle, which Dominic coincidentally called a ‘shuffler’, had been stuck discretely to the underside of a table in the food hall within Waverley Mall Shopping Centre earlier the previous day. Acting as a receiver and transmitter, the device intercepted any calls made to his mobile phone, broadcasting its carefully manipulated location for anyone wishing to attempt tracing it, before transferring the digital telecommunication signals onwards to the actual handset undetected. Although there was a slight lag between speaking and hearing, it was barely noticeable, and had anyone tried to intercept him using the ‘shuffler’s’ transmitted position, they’d have turned up empty handed and totally out of luck.

  Feeling significantly colder now that he had nothing to distract his thoughts, he stood up and began to jog some more for warmth, and because he wanted to return to the hotel for a shower before a hearty buffet breakfast. A couple of other people had the same idea regarding the brisk morning and were out jogging, running either towards or past him as he made his way along a path parallel with Princes Street towards the gardens’ exit.

  Soon he was running past the Victorian gothic monument erected to celebrate the life of the Scottish author Sir Walter Scott, and quickly beyond it, the Waverley Mall Shopping Centre and the railway station were coming into sight.

  Crossing Waverley Bridge, Dominic visualised the forthcoming encounter with Sophie as he skirted the entrance to the shopping centre and continued contemplating it as he progressed his jog into a run, taking loping strides along the road in the direction of his hotel, suddenly eager to get back to his room where he could better prepare, hoping Elspeth had recovered enough so that he could enjoy some intimate time and burn off some of his excited energy.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Meredith

  Meredith wondered who had kidnapped her and her two brothers, and why?

  Locked within the room with three beds for furniture and nothing by way of entertainment, it was another seriously low point in their short lives. With no windows or toilet facilities, the only relief from discomfort − both physical (the need to pee) and mental (the need for a change in scene) − came just three times in the day; an hour after breakfast, an hour after lunchtime and an hour after dinner.

  If they wanted the toilet at any other point, they soon learned the harsh reality: you can’t always get what you want.

  A slosh bucket placed in the corner of the room was provided for their use, affording no privacy. Charlie, to Meredith’s amusement, had refused to use it, soiling himself on more than one occasion since being held captive. This infuriated their captors no end, an outcome that appeared to motivate him to do it more.

  Toilet walks − or ‘twalks’ as they soon became known − were begrudgingly carried out on an individual basis. In turn, each of them would be collected from the room and taken for a short walk down a dark, sterile corridor as devoid of light as an underground catacomb, to a bathroom that had been built for purpose rather than comfort.

  ‘Twalks’ were carried out by either Hector or Natasha, the names of their abductors, which was all they knew of the pair, though Charlie continued to refer to them as ‘Scary’ and ‘Scarier’, the man the former and the woman the latter. It was clear which one of them wore the trousers, metaphorically, and it wasn’t the man from what the children had seen.

  Meredith had learned their names during an overheard exchange between the two; this had taken place shortly after first encountering the woman on day one. Meredith had pressed her left ear up against the door and had listened intently for the woman, or someone’s, return, an act that soon formed into habit and a daily ritual.

  With meal times and ‘twalks’ the only interruption to the tedium of being caged like dangerous animals or a circus freak of old, Meredith quickly adapted to use the infrequent visitations to map out the day in a crude, ancient timekeeping fashion. Identifying the meal by the type of ingredients served, Meredith was able to track the time of day, and the approximate duration of their confinement.

  Meredith had counted five meals since arrival.

  The first had been paraded as breakfast and lunch, commonly referred to as brunch, but applying the term here was ridiculous. When the woman − Natasha − had lifted the metal cover on one of the food trays she’d wheeled in on the waiter’s trolley, she presented burnt toast and butter. There was also two plastic cereal dispensers, one containing Corn Flakes, the other Rice Crispies and a serving jug half-filled with a UHT milk derivative, which tasted disgusting. Fruit juice cordial and water was also supplied. To say ‘no expense spared’ was an understatement.

  Owing to their circumstances, they hadn’t eaten much of what was on offer, and the man − Hector − soon came to retrieve the trolley. It was a little later that the routine of ‘twalks’ began.

  The next food delivery, half a dozen hours later, was a cooked dinner comprising of potatoes, various vegetables, and a casserole containing a meat which none of the children could identify. When asked, Hector just shrugged and said that it was: “Meat.” Now hungry, Meredith, Stanley and Charlie ate heartily, devouring every morsel.

  Breakfast came next (the same as before, but with the added bonus of fruit, bread, and a mixture of preserves), followed by lunch (ham and cheese sandw
iches); dinner again (steak pie and chips) and, most recently, breakfast.

  Like the previous day, breakfast consisted of much the same offerings and Meredith, Stanley and Charlie filled their stomachs, relishing the relief from boredom that mealtimes provided. On collection of the serving trolley, Hector accompanied Natasha for the now routine ‘twalk’.

  “You.” Hector, dressed in dark blue combat trousers, white T-shirt and a black leather flying jacket, pointed towards Charlie.

  Charlie stood up from his bed and cautiously approached the man. As he passed him by, Hector placed a hand across his back. Charlie looked over his shoulder nervously towards Meredith who nodded slightly and half-smiled, willing him to be brave. Once outside the room, the door was locked behind them and Hector marched him away.

  “I don’t like this anymore,” whispered Stanley miserably. “They took mum... now mum’s −” dead.

  “Please stop!” Meredith shouted unintentionally, borne out of frustration and the fact she didn’t really want to dwell on it. “I wish they’d just tell us what they wanted,” she added exasperatedly, standing up from her bed’s edge and pacing the room again, clasping and unclasping her hands in agitation. Pacing was all she ever did; that and listening up against the door. “If we knew what it was, maybe we could help.”

  Stanley started to cry. “I want to go home,” he said wretchedly.

  “I know,” she said, soothingly. She sat down next to the boy and draped an arm across his shoulders.

  Charlie was washed and wearing a change of clothing when he returned maybe half an hour later. Meredith was guessing the time. He was wearing nothing fancy, just a plain grey sweatshirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms secured at the waist with a drawstring. He sat down on his bed and watched Hector repeat the process with Stanley.